Pyrmont, 14 July
That I would be a bone of contention for Milena was hard to digest. I slept restlessly and woke up early enough to spend hours pondering over my clothes. Given my mood, I decided on the costume of a convict, black and simple in cut. A convict with style, though; an outfit made of silk and decorated with meticulous embroidery. A significant contrast with her clothes when she entered the dining room, dressed in the white linen dress. She decided to step out of her golden cage. “So? How does it look?” she said, her attention on invisible fluff she was brushing off her robe. “It looks beautiful on you, but I am biased, of course,” I said with relief. “I am quite aware of what I ask you and grateful for the trust you placed in me.”
“Didn’t you expect it?” she asked and looked up.
I shrugged. “It could have gone either way. I haven’t shared my life story often and the reactions have been... different. I’m happy with your decision.”
I held up my hand. She locked my eyes with a stern gaze before she handed me the collar. Then she turned around and held up her hair to present her neck. I carefully fastened the leather strap around it. She shuddered and turned to face me with downcast eyes. Which was fine by me, because I was more nervous than expected. Despite my past, she dared to take the step of willingly submitting herself to my authority. We embarked on an adventure. Neither of us knew if it would end well while our objectives diverged.
“Sit down, breakfast is ready.” I tried to act casual. It couldn’t have been very convincing. I offered her a chair, and she sat down. “Coffee?”
“Yes, please. It won’t surprise you I slept little last night,” she said and stretched to get rid of a last yawn. I poured coffee for both of us before I joined her at the table.
“For me, it was no different.”
“My decision kept you awake? What did you have to lose if I refused your proposal?”
“The chance to acquire a beautiful work of art and a beautiful friendship. Among other things.” What other things I had in mind, I left unsaid. The chance of watching her kneel before me, naked and awaiting my command. Her plain dress didn’t hide her lithe body, and no dress ever covered her mesmerising eyes, seductive and scornful at the same time. She threw me a nervous glance, but didn’t dare to ask after my thoughts. We buttered toast and ate in silence.
“That will be the first assignment?” she asked, after she washed down a piece of toast with her last bit of coffee, “making a painting for you?” She looked at her empty cup. “I doubt I could do anything you’d appreciate. What you really appreciate, I mean.”
My tension ebbed away to a pleasant level. I had this conversation with other artists. “I don’t doubt that you have such a work in you. The question is whether you have the courage to make it. What I want from you is a painting that expresses your deepest, darkest desires. Nobody needs to know that it is your work, which gives you the freedom to express yourself without constraints. Except for the constraint of time. You have one week to make it.”
She played with her empty cup, thinking it over, and finally put it down when she reached her decision. “Very well, though my desires may be a little tame for you.”
“Maybe. I won’t judge your desires on their merit, as long as they are yours.”
A slight blush coloured her face, and she shivered again. Her desires probably weren’t as tame as she feared. Her fingers caressed the collar, and she agreed with a slow nod. “Good. And then? What’s the second task?”
“Your second assignment is to serve me the rest of my breakfast as a member of my staff would.”
“You are joking.”
“Not at all.”
She frowned. “Why?”
I locked her eyes with a stern gaze and allowed an uncomfortable silence to linger. She didn’t avoid my gaze, but her frown disappeared.
“Because I am asking you and, according to our agreement, you have to carry out my commands. Because until now I served you to protect your privacy in relation to my staff. But mainly because in daily life you don’t share the freedoms your staff enjoys,” I said. “Nobility obliges, remember? That obligation fell away when you decided to wear the collar. Freedom of responsibility has a price, as any servant knows.” She looked at me bewildered, and I broke the tension with a grin. “And because I’d like another cup of coffee, please.”
With a mischievous smile, she undid the top button of her dress and accepted the challenge. “As you wish, Duke,” she said and stood up to put her money where her mouth was with an elegant bow. She realised the game had begun, although she did not know where it would lead. In the end, this was true for both of us.
I never understood the importance of the collar in our agreement, but the moment it adorns me, I do. It brings me back to the other painting you bought, as your warm fingertips slide over the sensitive skin of my neck, followed by supple black leather and the chill of the white gold clasp locks it in place. I have submitted to you, my fate is in your hands, which should be apprehensive and aggravating, but brings a tranquillity so heated and sensual it makes me blush. I’m free of any responsibility for my actions. They are yours to decide now.
After breakfast, I took Milena to the makeshift atelier I had set up for her. It was a fairly large basement, part of the original fortifications which I normally used for training. A grill door locked the entrance, which I opened to let her in. I stood in the doorway while she explored the cellar, satisfying her curiosity. The skylight high above us allowed daylight to enter. The main attraction had centre stage: an easel with an empty canvas. In a wide circle around it stood its audience on the wooden floor: a workbench with stools and an armchair. A cupboard, a dressing table, and a bed with a side table lined the bare walls. All the furniture was unadorned, comfortable, and sturdy. The cellar was clean and dry.
Behind a curtain, it also provided a sink and a water closet. On the workbench lay materials she needed for painting, together with a jug of water and a bowl with fresh bread. Besides the entrance, the atelier had two other doors. One labelled ‘fear’ and the other ‘desire’. She would find both doors locked; they would play their part later. “I’ll bring your toiletries,” I said, and closed the grated door behind her. The key clicked, locking the door.
Startled, she turned around. “Are you locking me up?”
“This month, you are mine. What is mine, I keep under lock and key.” The first real confrontation with the reality of our agreement.
“Say, I’m not an object,” she said with a nervous laugh, grabbing the bars of the door. I was at least as tense as her, but not allowed to show it.
“Objects can be stolen, and you could decide to leave before the month is over,” I said.
“Damian, this is not a funny game. Let me out,” she said, angry now, tugging the bars.
“No, it’s not a game,” I said, “and no, I’m not letting you out.” My apparent calmness made her realise I meant it, and her eyes widened with fear.
“Listen, I really won’t leave just like that. I’m keeping my end of the bargain,” she said.
“Then it doesn’t matter that I lock the door,”
“There is really no need to lock me up. You can trust me.” Her seductive smile didn’t reach beyond her lips. “You know that, otherwise you would never have told me your whole story.”
“Who should I trust, Milena?” I asked. “The Milena you are, the one you want to be, or the role you play for my pleasure?”
The smile disappeared. She clenched her fists around the bars. “So your solution is to lock me up like an animal.”
“Just because you’re scared and in unfamiliar territory doesn’t make you an animal.”
She lost all false pretense, let go of the bars and wrapped herself in her arms. Tears stood in her eyes. Only fear remained.
“Please, let me out.”
I slowly shook my head. “No. If I let you out now, I’ll be reneging on my part of the bargain.”
“I don’t mind,” she said, “I really don’t.”
“Maybe not now, but you will later. If I let you go, you’ll never come back. You’ll have missed the opportunity I’m offering you. Like I said, you make choices. I enforce the consequences of those choices. You promised to obey me for a month, I promised to command you for a month, and I keep my promises.”
Only when you lock me up I realise how rash my decision was. I am literally at your mercy. For a month. A month in which nobody will ask questions about my absence. Fear is useless in this situation and I become furious. At you, for locking me up and apparently not granting me the trust I grant you. Also at myself, for allowing myself to be manipulated by you so easily. And maybe because I don’t think it’s as terrible as I should. Shouting is useless in this cell, there is no one to hear me. But you can forget about your work of art. I’ll show you.
Pyrmont, 15 July
The next morning, I visited her again, dressed in simple black working clothes. Appropriate garb, because her cell was a colourful mess. She had destroyed the art supplies and thrown them through her cell. The easel survived unscathed. The empty canvas stared reproachfully at the artwork splattered on the wall in large angry letters: ‘BASTARD’. Milena crouched on the bed with her back towards me. She still wore the collar; she kept her part of the bargain. For me, it was all that mattered.
“Better,” I said from behind the bars that held her captive.
“What!?” She refused to look at me.
“The mural you painted.”
She glanced at the wall, and with a slow pivot, she met my eyes like a newly caged tigress. “Nonsense,” she snapped at me.
If I remained calm and serious, I expected her to become more reasonable as well. “You can’t deny that it shows more passion than the earlier work.”
“Fine,” she said, and stood. “If you are satisfied, you can let me go.”
“No,” I said, feigning my attention to the manicure I received this morning. “Your month under my guidance just started, and this was not your assignment.”
“Are you really planning to lock me in here for a month?”
“That’s up to you. Although it will be difficult to create a painting with what you have left.” I gestured at the mess of spilled paint and broken utensils on the floor.
“I’m not making anything for you ever.” The tigress was back and glared at her captor.
“You are not making it for me, Milena, but for yourself,” I said. “True art may please the casual observer, but its purpose is to express truth as seen by the artist.” I nodded at the mural. “Q.E.D.”
She took a deep breath and tried to calm down, her arms stiff, her hands fists. “Listen, I’m not a prisoner, not of you, not of anyone. You have no right to lock me up.”
“Wrong on all accounts,” I said. “You are a prisoner, but not mine, and you granted me the right to lock you up when you accepted our agreement.”
“I would do what you ask me. That was the agreement,” she said. “Not that you’d put me in a kennel like a dog.” She crossed her arms with her shoulders raised and looked away.
“Milena, in this cell you have more freedom than you ever had,” I said. “You can be angry and sad here, have fun, suffer, enjoy, whatever you want. With no one caring who you are and judging what you do. This atelier is here for you alone. The only thing I expect you to do is to comply with our agreement. Who knows, maybe you will find peace to be yourself and use your talents.” Then, slightly more forcibly: “Look at me.”
She did so with a deep sigh. “Why? What do you want from me?”
“You know what I want. I’ve already given you an assignment. You need new materials, I think. Do you want them?”
“Why are you doing this?”
My eyes wandered over the mess as I searched for the right words. I hoped I had found them and faced her again. “Because I see talent stifled by its surroundings. Because I enjoy beauty that touches me and I know you are capable of it. Because I want to be proud of you, daring the steps to achieve it. Because I know you won’t take those steps unless I force you to make hard choices. In this case, the choice between waiting a month for me to release you, or doing what I want you to do. A month minus a day. Clear this mess. Cleaning supplies are in the cupboard. I’ll provide materials to get back to work.”
I didn’t wait for her answer and went to get the art supplies. On my return, she looked at me with disdain and continued to tidy up the mess in silence. I put her own painters’ box over the threshold, together with the promised toiletries. I locked the door again, and I left her alone until the next day.
The next day, I cannot deny that you are right, although I still find it ridiculous that you locked me up. I have no intention of leaving. You want to be my teacher and patron. I see the value in that, but I can’t trust my dark desires to the canvas. I buried them for good reasons and I don’t know if I want to dig them up. And whether doing so is wise if you don’t trust me. Because that’s what the locked door of my cell tells me.
Pyrmont, 16 July
Milena sat in the armchair waiting for me. She seemed quiet and had covered the canvas on the easel. I entered the cellar carrying a tray with water, bread, and some fruit and put it on the workbench. Without a word, she stood up and hesitantly revealed the outline of her painting.
“What do you think?” she asked.
I studied it silently. As I expected, the new work lacked the passion of her mural. She had drawn a man and a woman embracing with a loving, tender kiss. It was only sketched in pencil, but it caught the essence of the moment. A skilful illustration for a romantic novel.
“Nice,” I said.
“That says nothing. What do you really think?”
Despite everything, she still wanted my opinion. A good sign. “I’m sure it will be beautiful. I really mean it.” I faced her and gestured at the remains of the mural. “Better executed compared to your previous work as well. I don’t know anyone who wouldn’t appreciate this. But what do you think yourself?”
She looked at the sketch and lowered her head. “I couldn’t think of anything else.”
“This is your dark desire?” I asked. “Romantic love?”
“No.” She sighed, “I just don’t have any dark desires.” She didn’t even bother to make it sound sincere.
“You wouldn’t be here if that was true,” I said, “and you know it.”
She looked up sharply. “Very well then, I have no dark desires I wish to share with you.”
“Then don’t. The work is meant to express yourself. What holds you back is shame and perhaps a lack of inspiration.”
“What’s wrong with shame?”
I exchanged the full bowl for the empty one and cleaned up. “In daily life, not much. Without taboos, we fall into anarchy. But if you get the chance to be shameless without repercussions, use it. Sometimes you have to let yourself go.”
“Like my husband sometimes lets himself go in your brothel?”
I didn’t deny it. “We are all unique Milena, everyone has personal inhibitions and desires. Your husband his, you yours. We all try to keep them on a leash, but if you don’t release your leash occasionally, you wither away, tied to the perch of propriety. Those who dared to do so made the art I showed you. Shall I add this work to that collection? After all, if you finish it, you did what I asked you to do.”
It remained silent for a long time. She let herself fall into the chair and looked at the ground. “No,” she said, her voice soft but with conviction.
It was hard to contain my elation. She understood this was an opportunity, not punishment. The romantic tableau did not fit in with the pieces I had shown her. She could do better and now she would try. I walked up to her and offered her a key.
“This one opens all the doors in your cell. You may choose which.”
She took my key and gazed at the two closed doors. “What do the signs mean? Fear and desire?”
“What it says,” I said and examined the cell. Everything was neat and clean, only faded paint smears remained as evidence of her receded rage.
“What’s behind those doors?” she said.
“Inspiration for your painting.”
“What if I choose the cell door?” It was a sincere question. She deserved a sincere answer and an honest choice.
“Then I wish you a pleasant stay on the estate, and I have no other assignments for you. When the month is over, I’ll collect the collar and tell you about your husband.”
“Beyond that, I won’t see you again?”
“No, then you have chosen to return to your golden cage. I can do little for you while you’re there.”
“Then I will have failed you.”
I put my hand on her shoulder. “No. I would be sorry, but I’m already proud of you for getting this far. What I expect you to do is difficult. The path I guide you on will only become more so. For most, it’s even impossible. But I believe you can do it, otherwise you wouldn’t be here. I will come back tomorrow. If you’re still here, we will talk more.” I emptied the tray and left the cellar.
When you finally give me the key, I can leave, but I don’t consider going outside for a moment. I’m far too curious about the other rooms. I choose ‘Desire’, I’m already anxious enough about what awaits me. It doesn’t make any difference. The two doors access the same room, like fear and desire can be sides of the same coin. Paintings and drawings lining the walls are much more intense and explicit than those in your exhibition. Like Carraci’s prints with satyrs seducing women and a painting by Corinth depicting bacchantes celebrating. These are artists I have heard of. I find the drawings by Rops and Zichy, artists I don’t know, more disturbing. Zichy with drawings of copulating people, almost lifelike and sensual without being judgmental. Especially the works by Rops touch a chord and confuse me. A woman hanging from a cross and enjoying it despite her unfortunate position, or the tableau of a woman surrendering to a crucified devil, her ecstatic face close to his erection. The second one depicts a naked woman lying on a table, surrounded by darkness and overwhelmed by what passed before. I involuntarily place myself in their position, and it excites me. The last work by Rops hangs above a low filing cabinet. A woman reading in bed between piles of books under a towering devil, who is carrying more volumes for her to read.
It should have been a warning. Folders full of photos and reports fill the drawers of the cupboard, providing a picture of the events in your House of Seven Sins. Testimonies recorded on typewriters, always written in the first person, leaving the narrators anonymous: the experiences of your courtesans with their clients. At first, I look for the person who describes their union with my husband, but no one mentions guests by name, although they will undoubtedly recognise themselves in it. I am captivated by the desires of others and recognise them. My desire to do whatever I want. My desire to leave all obligations for what they are. Above all, my desire to surrender to sensual urges I’ve been forced to keep in check all my life. I give in, and let my fingers do their work, only to refrain from reaching a climax, overcome with shame. That is not me. I can’t be the girl suffering my fantasies. But I am, and the files show me I’m not the only one submitting to it. In the end, my body overcomes my resisting morals and I fall asleep with a first version of my painting in mind. I know one thing for sure: I’ll never be able to paint it.
Pyrmont, 17 July
Late in the morning, I went to her cell. She was still asleep. The door marked ‘Desire’ was open, the key still in the lock. I brought another tray with water and bread and woke her up by placing the tray with a slap on the side table next to her bed. She moved a little, but feigned to be dormant. I surmised she wasn’t able to face me and sat down in the armchair.
“Come, eat and drink. It was a rough night for you.”
“Go away, please,” she murmured. It didn’t sound like a request though, more like a command.
“No,” I said.
“I can’t paint it.” She was sure of that.
“But you will try,” I said, just as convinced.
She turned to me abruptly. Traces of tears marked her face. She was blushing. Anger, sadness and shame.
“They are testimonies of others. I’m not like them.”
I did not avoid her gaze. “I know, but you recognised desires they described.”
“You knew I would?” she hissed. Anger won out over sadness and shame. For now.
“No,” I said and nodded towards the open door. “I don’t know which stories got you riled up. They are your dark desires, not mine.”
It was true, though I had some notion. The paintings Von Bentheim bought hinted at Milena’s need to submit herself and her desire to relinquish control. The women kneeling before a higher power and accepting the necklace. Though her mind fought these needs with eloquence and wit, her body betrayed her when she averted her eyes or blushed during our conversations in private. But the woman on the train station depicted Milena’s overriding need: her desire for heated passion and unrestrained lust. The way her lips parted at my previous jabs with innuendo or when she spoke of the testimonies, just before her angry frown appeared. The way she moved without realising her body invited my touch. I had to be careful, though. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d seen things that weren’t there.
“Do you ever read them yourself?” she said, her lips trembling before setting in an angry thin line.
I nodded. “I had them written, so yes, I’ve read them all.”
“Why?” she whispered hoarsely and slowly rose to her feet. “Why on earth do you want to know this about others? Want to know it about yourself?” Her anger waned. Only sadness and shame remained.
“Knowledge is power?” I said. “Knowing that the guy staring at me in the mirror is not alone in his cravings?” I afforded myself a smile. “I think the main reason is that the animal within us is too curious not to read it.”
“I felt less than an animal while reading, like a beast. I don’t want to be like that.” Her gaze turned glassy. A testimony she remembered?
I stood and approached her. “Wanting has nothing to do with it. Your desires are like eating, drinking, and breathing. What matters is how you cope with them.” Sitting down next to her, I put an arm around her shoulders. She allowed it, leaned against me and cried bitter tears. Grateful she trusted me enough to do so, I waited for her to speak again. It took a long time. Only shame remained.
“Why am I so... disgusting?”
“You are what you decide to be. Not what others think of you.” I said and held her close. She had to understand she didn’t disgust me, on the contrary. She clung to me with her arms around my waist.
With my free hand, I brushed the unruly hair from her face, lifted her chin, and met her eyes. “Most people prefer to be blind to their true desires. They live a life of fear and regret. Not you, you were too curious and now you know. Most who know their cravings resist them with all their might and turn into hateful fanatics, punishing others for their own sins. Only a few have the courage to accept and enjoy their needs. Which group you belong to is the choice that lies ahead of you.”
“I lack that kind of courage,” she whispered.
With slow strokes, I slid my fingers through her hair like a comb. “I think you do, and I’m proud of every step you’ve taken on this path so far. If you go any further and stumble or fall, I’ll be there to catch you,” I said, and released her. “Come, I have clean clothes for you. When you’re ready, you can change. There will be visitors tonight.”
She sat up straight, frowning.
“My husband?”
I nodded.
She evaded my gaze and crossed her arms. “Did the transcripts involve him as well?”
“Do you really want to know?”
She shivered with her shoulders raised. “I no longer dare to face him.”
I caught her wrist and took her hand in mine. She relaxed, and with a casual glance, allowed me to kiss it. “That won’t happen tonight. Rest now, we’ll meet again later.”
I felt sorry for her. To face facets of yourself you rather hide away and forget hurts. She finally gave me a quick nod and I let go of her hand. With a tender kiss on her forehead, I said goodbye. Although I left the grilled door open, she remained in her cell the rest of the day. She removed the romantic lovers from the canvas and began a new work: the painting that would become part of my collection.
Early in the afternoon, Milena’s husband arrived with his company, but I let Alfred handle their welcome. I slept till the evening, for it would be a long night. According to Alfred, her husband and his company had enjoyed a sumptuous dinner. At the moment, he was engaged in a high-stakes card game. Soon he would leave for a private room with the lady of his choice. It was time to see Milena again. She had scraped the linen of her attempts at my assignment, sat on the bed and stared at the blank canvas. My entrance broke her concentration, and she looked up at me as I walked towards her.
“You come for naught. I can’t do it.”
“Take your time. I’m in no hurry,” I reassured her.
She handed me a stack of sealed envelopes. “I have written letters for my family and some acquaintances.”
“I will have them delivered,” I said and looked at the recipients. “One of them is here tonight as a client.”
“My husband,” she said wearily.
I nodded and put the envelopes away in the leather bag I was carrying.
She slumped with a deep sigh. “Can’t you just tell me what he’s looking for here? Or let me read it?”
“You have to see it for yourself.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t tell you without violating the truth. Because otherwise, at the end of the week, you’ll still be fighting with a blank canvas, full of shame. And because I’m asking you to. Come.”
She sighed, took my hand and stood. In silence, she followed me through the secret corridors of the estate, to the dungeons where the House of Seven Sins was located, which made itself known with snippets of distorted party sounds. Laughter, wailing, yelling and screaming mixed with distorted music that elsewhere sounded cheerful, melancholic or soothing. We ended up in a small room with dark wood panelling, except for one bare white wall. A heavy wooden chair faced it, and I invited Milena to sit. Dragging her feet, she did. I turned the gaslight low, waited until our eyes adjusted and opened an ocular on the wall behind her. On the white wall opposite the ocular, a sumptuous and spacious bedroom appeared. Soft light from candelabras illuminated an oversized four-poster bed, a table filled with all kinds of delicacies and an open wall cupboard with paraphernalia for the sensual game that was to be played here. On the walls hung paintings and carpets that served as inspiration and mirrors, many, many mirrors.
She turned around in surprise. “What is this?”
“We are in a camera obscura. You see the room behind it.” I knocked on the thin wooden wall with the ocular. She dropped her head.
“I don’t think I want to be here,” she said. An understatement. She shifted on the chair and nervously picked at her dress.
“Don’t you want answers to your questions?” I asked.
“I can guess the answers.” She gestured to the projection of the empty bedroom that wasn’t intended for sleeping.
“Whether your husband is cheating is not the question you’re wrestling with.”
She looked up in despair.
I continued. “The pictures you saw were taken here. No one can see us.” I knelt at her feet, locked eyes with her and held up my hand. “Give me your wrists.”
“Why?”
“I’ll tie you to the chair,” and with my other hand, I fetched the lengths of rope from my bag.
“Again, why?” Her voice was shaking. She was afraid. Not of me, I suspected, but of herself. She didn’t know how she’d react to what was about to happen.
“I promised to guide you on this path,” I said. “If you don’t experience this from start to finish, you will fall and I won’t be able to catch you. The rope I am tying you with, will prevent that.” I remained kneeling before her, my hand offered. Tranquillity itself. At least, I tried to be with little success. Fortunately, the situation distracted her too much to notice. Breathing hard, she looked around until she found the door. “If I say no? And leave now?”
“Then we both broke our promise. You will hate every free spirit, wishing to destroy it, especially your own. For you looked in the mirror of dark desires and rejected what you saw. It will be my fault, because I misjudged you,” I said slowly, word for word. I was as tense as she was, though for different reasons. This was the moment she decided if she really trusted me to catch her if she fell.
“There is no other way?” she asked with a whimper.
“Not for you,” I said. “There are other ways, but you can’t handle them yet.”
Trembling, she placed her wrists in my hand and her eyes bore into mine. I held her gaze while I bound her wrists to the armrests, firm but not uncomfortable. Softly I kissed her cheek and whispered in her ear: “I will not betray your trust. I will stay with you.”
Then I tied her ankles to the chair legs. Being tied up can bring peace and stability. Handing over your autonomy to someone else relieves you of responsibility and, if properly applied, this surrender brings ecstasy. But not always, or with everyone. I could leave that uncertainty behind me. Caught in the trance of rope, she remained silent, at the mercy of what would follow. I stood behind her and whispered, “You mustn’t make a sound, then they will hear us, as we can hear them,” then tied a gag in front of her mouth and put my hands on her shoulders.
We did not have to wait long. Her husband entered the bedroom with his masked companion. The talented lady who fulfilled his specific wishes. Their game of master and slave began. He played it with verve, balancing her on the border of pain and pleasure with various attributes, slowly increasing both. It didn’t take his willing victim long to fall into a state of exaltation she didn’t have to pretend. An ecstasy that did not subside entirely when she recovered. Only to allow him to continue the game after she enjoyed some food and a drink. He played her body like an instrument, with his voice, his hands, his lips, his tongue, and finally his cock.
He humiliated her with her own desires: made her beg for more, then gave her more than she asked for. The game ended in a storm of orgasms that rocked their bodies uncontrollably. A sight I could never have explained to Milena; she had to bear witness, understanding it is a game both players enjoy. Two hours later, they were exhausted, satiated, and satisfied. The silence returned. When Milena’s husband fell asleep soon after, the woman left the enormous bed. She threw a kiss hand at us before she left, dressed only in her mask, and marks he’d left on her body.
And Milena? Milena had been trembling and quivering in silence, frustrated and excited. Strapped to her chair, she seemed to be torn between disgust and lust for the dark, sensual game unfolding before her eyes. For me it was confirmation of her hidden desires which didn’t fail to affect me. Neither did her tears, her anger and grief discovering the truth, which finally shattered the myth of her marriage and left her in shards. Would I be able to help her? The warm knot of my lust became a cold stab of fear.
I closed the ocular and knelt before her, not avoiding her fierce gaze for a moment. Again, she looked like a tigress, this time ready to pounce on her prey. Although she didn’t realise it, she was freer than she’d ever been. Now she was the senseless animal she was afraid to be. I put my hands over her clenched fists.
“Can I untie you?”
Her breathing slowed. She calmed down, regaining her bearings, and looked away, squeezing her eyes shut, caught between wanting to ignore me and needing me to escape from this chamber. Away from the smell of her own sweat, tears, and lust. Away from the ropes, she pulled tight around her ankles and wrists in her rage. Finally, I got a stiff nod. Reason returned, accompanied by deadly fatigue. She slouched in the chair and her straining muscles relaxed, although I suspected conflicting emotions caused the brunt of her exhaustion.
I freed her from the gag and quietly unwound the coils of rope that held her captive in the chair. While the red marks around her wrists and ankles would soon disappear, the memory of her husband and his lady would only fade. In silence, she allowed her tears to run free, mingling with the sweat on her skin. Her hair stuck to her face, the simple dress clung like a wet cloth to her body; no longer a lady, but a wounded animal. I took a blanket from the bag, wrapped it around her and lifted her from the chair to carry her back to her cell.
She let it happen, went completely limp and let herself go. Her heartrending cries mingled with the distorted sounds of revelry in the dungeons.
In the cell, I laid her on the bed and stripped her. She now only whimpered and occasionally looked at me with a blank stare. I massaged traces left behind by the ropes with healing oil, wiped sweat from her skin with a warm sponge, towelled her off and blanketed her. She fell asleep before I sat in the armchair next to her bed.
The next day the canvas remains empty, as I expected. I am ashamed of the images that haunt me and seek a way out. That night, you keep your promise and show me what brings my husband to this place. I hate you all. My husband for cheating on me. For depriving me of the passion he shares with a whore. I hate his whore because she dares to lose herself in her desires without shame and permits my husband to use her. I hate you for showing me this. I hate myself most of all because I crave what he shares with her. A craving I will never dare to indulge.
